


Believest Thou This?

by zinke



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-17
Updated: 2009-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinke/pseuds/zinke
Summary: Like a switch being flipped, Laura is suddenly, painfully aware – of everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted survival instinct.net on June 10, 2009. 
> 
> This story is a bit of a departure for me – usually the mere thought of writing AU is enough to make me break out in hives – but this idea (the by-product of a pre-finale, very silly fannish conversation) kind of grew on me – while simultaneously growing less cracktastic – and so I thought I’d give it a go.

Laura hears only snatches of their conversation – enough to make her heart beat a little faster but not nearly enough to understand why. The voices sound fuzzy, diluted as they are by the unforgiving haze of pain that, like the rhythmic bleat of the heart monitor and hiss of oxygen passing through the tube at her nose, has become her constant companion.

“We have to go back.”

“This is insane.”

“I know how this sounds Bill, but for once I’m gonna to have to agree with Starbuck.” 

“We need her, Sir. I can’t explain why; I just know that if we’re ever going to find a place to call home, she has to be the one to lead us there.”

“Lee will never agree to it.”

“Let me handle Lee, Sir. With your permission, of course.”

She can almost feel the change in Bill as his grip on her fingers tightens and his thumb begins to trace soothing, nonsensical patterns across the papery skin on the back of her hand. 

The last thing she hears before drifting off to sleep is the resigned sound of Bill’s voice. “Do it.”

* * * *

Laura isn’t aware of anything else for what she inexplicably knows to be a long time after that.

When she does wake it is abrupt – almost violently so – and instinctively her eyes snap open in a desperate attempt to assess her environment, only to discover that the little she is able to make out is wholly unfamiliar to her. As her distress and confusion continue to mount, Laura notices a woman she thinks might be Tory standing some distance away, watching her with a mixture of unease and poorly concealed excitement. Swallowing thickly, Laura attempts to ask why she’s looking at her that way, but before she’s able to get her muscles to comply, the woman has turned and disappeared through a nearby door, exposing to Laura’s questing gaze a narrow strip of alternately blinking lights along the far wall. 

There is something about the irregular pattern of flashes and blips that Laura finds both familiar and entrancing, but try as she might she’s not able to focus her thoughts enough to figure out why. Everything about herself feels peculiarly just out of reach, and while intuitively she knows she is frightened, she doesn’t feel it – at least not in the way she knows she should.

What little concentration Laura had been able to exercise is unexpectedly broken a moment later when Ellen Tigh’s familiar visage slips into view. “Welcome back, Laura.”

“Back from where?” she asks and is momentarily startled by the rich sound of her own voice, so different from the tight, brittle tone she remembers. 

Ellen smiles at her indulgently. “Give yourself a few minutes; this process is more than a little disorienting – a little like waking up from an incredibly vivid dream. Then again, I’m not an expert on this particular form of resurrection,” she adds, gesturing to their surroundings, “but it seems to be based on the same basic principles as those used by myself and the others – and our modern-day Cylons, of course.” 

“Resurrection…” Laura murmurs hazily, as she tries to make sense of the tumult of half-remembered sounds and images rushing through her aching head. 

“It really is incredible,” Ellen continues, ostensibly oblivious to Laura’s struggle, “that this facility has survived for as long as it has – let alone that the technology is still viable.”

Without warning something within Laura seems to snap into place, and before she quite realizes what she is doing, she’s pulled herself fully upright to look the other woman determinedly in the eye. “Ellen, just tell me what the frak is going on.”

Ellen’s surprise is disappointingly short-lived. “See? More like your old self already.” 

There’s something about the inflection and Ellen’s seemingly deliberate choice of words that gives Laura pause. Out of habit, she licks her lips nervously – only to wince at the startlingly pungent, chemical taste on her tongue. Curiously, she swipes her fingers along her lower lip and drops her gaze to study the translucent, syrupy residue she finds glistening on her fingertips. 

And like a switch being flipped, Laura is suddenly, painfully aware – of everything. 

“No,” she rasps, her throat tightening in response to her rapidly rising panic. Her feet frantically scrabble for purchase on the slick interior surface of the tub as she struggles to stand; once she does, Laura wastes no time in climbing out of the viscous goo, all thoughts of safety and propriety pushed aside in her desperation to escape.

The air is cold against her damp, unspoiled skin and the sensation abruptly brings Laura back to herself. Self-conscious and shivering, she wraps her arms around her naked body before lifting her gaze in search of the woman she assumes to be the architect of this madness.

Laura doesn’t have far to look; she finds Ellen standing only a few feet away with her eyes averted and arm outstretched, a bathrobe – no, her bathrobe – dangling from her fingers. “You might want to put this on. Your body’s ability to regulate temperature is going to be mildly impaired until your neural feedback mechanisms have had a chance to reboot themselves.”

Laura recoils at Ellen’s distinctly mechanistic choice of words and the haughty, somewhat bored tone in which they are delivered. Tamping down the urge to fire back an acerbic remark, she instead snatches the garment from Ellen before backing away and shrugging into the familiar, well-worn terrycloth. “How did this happen?” she asks finally, knotting the sash around her waist and feeling both desperate for and terrified of the answer.

Ellen hands Laura a threadbare towel before replying, her lips curling into a humorless grin as her attention shifts to somewhere just behind Laura’s left shoulder. “Why don’t you ask her?” she retorts, inclining her head slightly for emphasis.

Turning, Laura is surprised to see Kara standing just inside the doorway, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Madame President. It’s good to see you again.”

“Except I’m not me, am I Kara? Not really.” 

“You are,” Ellen interjects. “Biologically, psychologically, hereditarily; in every way that matters, you are Laura Roslin.”

“No, I’m not. Because if I were I would be dead.” Saying the words aloud somehow makes the situation all the more real – decidedly too real – for her; Laura can literally feel this unthinkable reality in which she’s found herself crashing down on her, and it’s taking everything she has not to collapse under the weight of it. “I was dying,” she insists brokenly, fighting back tears. “And I was ready for it; I was finished.”

“Kara has reason to believe otherwise.” 

Ellen’s frankly delivered explanation is the absolute last thing she had been expecting, and it’s startling enough to temporarily stifle Laura’s other, more volatile emotions. Closing her eyes Laura takes a deep, cleansing breath before turning to regard Kara with a critical eye. “Ellen, I’d like to speak with Captain Thrace alone, please.”

“But—”

She cuts the other woman off with a sharp, murderous look and to her relief Ellen capitulates almost immediately. As she watches Ellen leave, Laura does her best to ignore the lightheadedness and nausea that have been building steadily since she first pulled herself from the tub. Once she’s sure the other woman is gone, Laura turns to look for a place to sit – and is surprised to find Kara maneuvering a chair up beside her. “You look like you could use this,” Kara offers, giving Laura an uncertain smile.

Nodding her thanks, Laura lowers herself gingerly into the chair and breaths a quiet sigh of relief as the uncomfortable symptoms immediately begin to abate. She does her best to wipe the last vestiges of the goo from her face and hair with the towel Ellen had handed her earlier, then motions for Kara to join her. As soon as the younger woman has settled herself against the lip of the tub Laura leans forward slightly and demands softly, “I need to know what’s happened, Kara. More importantly, I need to know why.”

“I’m a human/Cylon hybrid, like Hera,” Kara states simply. “When I flew into that storm my Viper crashed here, on Earth. I died. And then I was resurrected.”

“How—?”

“My father was the one Sam had been talking about; the eighth. Daniel.”

“Oh my gods.”

“And you,” Kara says, pulling herself to her feet and placing her hands on her hips as she begins to pace, “have Hera’s blood running through your veins.”

“We’re back on Earth,” Laura breathes, feeling her heart skip a beat as the last of the puzzle pieces finally falls into place. “And I’ve been resurrected.”

Kara comes to a stop at the far side of the room. “Yes,” she replies, keeping her back to Laura as she does so.

Laura takes a moment to mull over everything she’s learned, and is surprised to realize how quickly and easily her earlier horror has dissipated. In this moment she finds herself feeling more resigned than anything else. “Tell me why.”

Kara turns and fixes Laura with a hard, unyielding stare. “Because you’re the only one who can lead us to our new home.”

“You’re wrong,” Laura insists with a brusque shake of her head.

“I had a dream – a vision, maybe. I don’t know, exactly.” Kara shrugs, her posture strangely at odds with the resoluteness of her expression. “I may not be one-hundred percent sure what it was I saw, but I do know what it was telling me. We can’t do this without you.” 

Laura can think of nothing to say to this; there’s a part of her that recoils in pain at this reminder of how, in spite of everything she’d given and lost in the name of her people, she had ultimately failed them. But there’s another part of her that desperately wants to believe Kara, is willing to grab hold of this tiny scrap of hope with both hands if need be to make it – make herself – that much more real.

“Madame President,” Kara interjects, resuming her perch against the lip of the tub, “I know how much stock you’ve placed in the prophecies of the Sacred Scrolls. And I know what it feels like to have that kind of faith taken away from you. I don’t know whether this will make any of it easier for you to accept but in a sense, you won’t have survived to see the Promised Land.”

As she considers Kara’s words, Laura’s gaze is drawn once again to the far side of the room and the rhythmically pulsing lights that had so captivated her earlier. The attraction is no less strong now – though whether that is due to the riddle they represent or some other more mysterious factor, she can’t be certain. But as Laura continues to watch the almost lyrical play of color and illumination her mind begins to wander, her thoughts moving away from the strangeness and confusion of the present – only to inexplicably focus themselves a moment later on the forgotten memory of a tenet she’d once – in her heartbroken desperation – forsaken. "And the body of each tribe's leader was offered to the gods in the tomb of Athena," she breathes, the familiar words bringing a tiny, involuntary smile to her lips in spite of her lingering doubts.

“And once it was finished,” Kara adds quietly, “the people boarded the great ship that would carry them across the stars to their destiny.”

Laura huffs softly to herself and glances at Kara out of the corner of her eye. “A bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” 

“Interpreting prophecy has never been an exact science, Ma’am.”

“So say we all.” Laura continues to be surprised by the ease with which she seems to be accepting all of this, and wonders if the steady dissipation of her distress is somehow related to what’s happened to her. The idea that she has somehow been reborn as someone other than herself sends a chill down the length of her spine. She makes a conscious effort to push the uncomfortable notion from her mind, choosing instead to focus on the others her resurrection is sure to have affected. “Do I even have to ask what Bill thinks about all of this?” she asks wryly, indicating the now vacant tub and array of consoles lining the far wall.

Laura doesn’t miss the pained look that momentarily passes over Kara’s features. “He hasn’t said all that much about it since we made the initial decision to come back. He was here with you, at the end. But the rest…I think the idea of seeing you go through all this was too much for him to deal with.” 

“I can imagine,” Laura replies absently, trying to ignore the irrational sense of disappointment she feels welling in her chest. 

Something in her expression must betray her discomfiture, because a moment later she feels Kara’s hand on her arm and looking up, she finds the younger woman’s sympathetic eyes on her. “He wants to be happy – is happy, I think – about your being here, like this.” 

“He knows I’m…awake?”

“Tory had strict instructions to contact him as soon as the process—” Kara hesitates before continuing, “—as soon as you woke up.”

“Oh,” Laura breathes, feeling suddenly, disturbingly unsure of herself. “He’ll be coming down, then?” 

“Down?” Kara says, her brow furrowing. “The Admiral’s not on Galactica, ma’am. He’s here.”

“But I thought—”

“No way was he going to leave you down here alone – not with Ellen Tigh running the show.” 

“Of course not,” Laura says with a bemused smile. “I’ve always said that man has good instincts.” 

“Great instincts,” Kara corrects with an impish grin.

The sound of footsteps behind her draws Laura’s attention; turning, she feels her breath catch in her throat at the sight of Bill gazing at her in abject wonderment from just inside the doorway. When he finally speaks his voice is low, hesitant; but still powerful enough to raise goose bumps along her arms and bring tears to her eyes. “Laura?” 

Kara watches the exchange in silence then rises to her feet. “See what I mean?” she mock-whispers, leaning down to flash Laura a knowing smile. “Sir,” she acknowledges with a nod a moment later, straightening and stepping aside as Bill makes his way over to them, his eyes never once straying from Laura’s. 

“Starbuck, please inform Doc Cottle of the President’s status; I suspect he’s going to want to come down and examine the patient for himself.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

Laura takes no notice of Kara’s departure; all of her attention and energy is focused on Bill. His scrutiny is both a comfort and somewhat unnerving; his expression is uncharacteristically difficult for her to read and the distance he keeps from her – however small – only helps to reinforce all the insecurities and fears she’s held since her awakening. 

Self-consciously Laura shifts in the chair and reaches up to pull the lapels of her robe more closely together. Something about the action seems to roust Bill from his silent scrutiny; with only a moment’s hesitation he steps forward to take her hand gently in his. Cradling it loosely in his palm, he runs the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand and along the length of her fingers – just as he had in sickbay before…before. 

Feeling as much in need of reassurance as he, Laura stands and slides her hand more securely into his own; and is relived when he glances up to meet her questioning gaze with a grateful – if uncertain – smile.

“How are you?” he asks carefully. 

The sharp, acerbic words are past her lips before Laura can stop herself. “Healthy as a horse, apparently.” 

Bill’s eyes dart up to meet hers for a brief moment before dropping to once again study their entwined hands. “Yeah.”

She weighs her next words carefully, all too aware of the fragility not only of the situation itself, but of the emotions involved. “Bill, you have to know that, given the chance, I never would have agreed to this.”

“It’s the reason I fought against it as long as I did.”

“Do you believe her? In this supposed vision of hers?”

Bill’s gaze travels the length of the room, taking in the tub and equipment behind her. When his eyes once again settle on Laura, there is a certainty in his expression that hadn’t been there before. “I believe in you.”

His newfound conviction – so at odds with her own tumultuous feelings – is enough to bring tears to her eyes. “Do you?” she whispers brokenly.

His expression immediately softens, and Laura knows that he understands what it is she isn’t yet able to say. Stepping closer – so close she can feel the heat of him through the layers of wool and terrycloth they wear – he reaches out to cup her cheek in his hand and gazes intently into her eyes as if searching for some sort of affirmation. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t say anything at all but as she waits anxiously for his response she feels Bill’s fingers relax against her skin a moment before he leans in to kiss her sweetly, softly, so like that first time what feels like – and now ironically is – a lifetime ago.

Pulling back, Bill offers her an encouraging smile. “Yes.”

“And if I’m not so sure?” she asks, her lips curling into a tiny, self-conscious smile.

“Then I’ll have to believe enough for the both of us,” he replies without hesitation as he draws her against his chest and folds her securely in his arms.

As Bill continues to hold her, her attention strays once again to the dancing pattern of lights peppering the far wall, and for a moment Laura could swear she hears the distance echo of a familiar refrain buzzing in her ear. The sensation lingers as she closes her eyes and rests her head upon his shoulder, relaxing against him as her confusion and doubts gradually begin to fade. If Bill – self-proclaimed atheist and lifelong adversary of the Cylons – is able to see past all this – see her in spite of what’s happened – then perhaps there’s hope for her – for all of them – yet.

“And this is not our fate,” she murmurs with a contented sigh.

 

*fin.*


End file.
